


The Seven Year Itch

by SSAEmilyHotchner



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Marilyn Monroe - Freeform, The Seven Year Itch, Zorro - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-29
Updated: 2011-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-06 15:58:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/420680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SSAEmilyHotchner/pseuds/SSAEmilyHotchner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oneshot. It was only a matter of time before Emily Prentiss set out to seduce him. Little did he know, a Halloween fundraiser would provide her with the moment she'd been yearning for. Written for the Masquerade Challenge on FanFiction. Prompt: Marilyn Monroe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Seven Year Itch

"Penelope Garcia, I am going to murder you in the most painful way possible."

Despite the threat, Garcia grinned from ear to ear. "Who are you kidding, Em?" she snorted. "You love me."

"This…this costume," Emily spat, fuming, "is awful. First of all, this wig is disgustingly itchy. Secondly -"

"Oh, hush," Garcia said bravely, holding up a finger to Emily's lips. "The wig looks perfect. And you look amazing!" She yanked on Emily's arm and tugged her over to the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom. "See?"

Emily huffed, then begrudgingly brought her gaze up to meet the eyes of her reflection. What she saw made her do a double take.

The blonde hair, the billowy white dress, the pale complexion, the punchy scarlet lipstick…

"You look exactly like her," Garcia gushed proudly, handing her the last - added - costume piece: a fiery red mask that was the exact same shade as her lip stain, and that successfully shielded her beguiling features beyond recognition.

Emily twirled around slowly, her eyes on the dress. "I do," she admitted, after a minute of silence and wig-tugging. And then she smiled, dropping her hands to her side and fingering the gauzy, silky white material. "I do."

Garcia leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her friend's cheek. "You are going to win the costume contest, hands down. And not only that, but I can guarantee you that all the men's eyes will be on you and only you tonight."

There's only one man I want, Emily thought to herself, pursing her lips and inspecting the immaculately applied lipstick.

Then, as if she had read the other woman's mind, Garcia said, "Go get your man, Em," and gave her a playful shove toward the door.

Blinking a couple times as the words registered, Emily's jaw dropped open in surprise. "My man?" she quoted. "How did you -"

"How did I know?" Garcia actually laughed in response. "My dear, surely by now you know that I know everything."

And then she winked.

A wickedly gorgeous slowly spread across Emily's face. "Surely," she tossed right back.

"Now go!" Garcia eagerly prompted once more. "Get him."

"I will," Emily vowed, a twinkle of something mischievous in her eyes.

And get him she would.

Emily Prentiss would stop at nothing.

~.~.~

As her gaze landed on him, standing in the far corner of the ballroom, Emily felt her heart stop beating.

Her breathing became shallow.

Her cheeks became flushed.

Her body immediately flooded with warmth.

When Garcia had revealed that he had chosen to dress as Zorro, Emily had imagined a costume with little to no adornments; a mere figure mysteriously cloaked figure in all black, similar to the figure she had seen in the movie many years ago.

What she didn't expect was this. The mask. The intricately designed, flowing Spanish cape. The wide-brimmed hat, tipped at the most perfect angle. The black riding boots. The rapier, the bullwhip, the pistol.

The mystery, the sex-appeal, the sheer eroticism in the way he carried himself.

What she didn't expect was how big an effect it - he - would have on her.

Approaching him with a coy tilt to her lips, she reveled in the look on his face when she placed a dainty hand on his shoulder and informed him of her presence.

"Well, well, well. Señor Zorro. Fancy seeing you here." She paused, smiling sultrily. "Or…do you prefer Agent Hotchner?"

Hotch met her masked gaze and she could see his mind working, determined to identify the woman standing before him…but alas, her voice was too obscured, too different.

"Either is fine," he dismissed, his eyes still steadfastly focused on hers. Marvelously in character, he gave her a slight bow. "Miss…Monroe. The pleasure is mine. Though…" he took a step forward, "you seem to know more about me than I do of you. Care to tell me your name?"

She chuckled, and it was husky; it set his blood afire. "Why, my name is Marilyn," she responded, teasing. "I thought you knew."

He shook his head, chuckling along with her for a moment. "Your real name," he amended, his gaze dropping down to the full red lips, the plump, beautifully curved cupid's bow that looked oh so familiar.

But Emily drew back, her hand moving from his shoulder to his wrist now. "Well, that would spoil all of the fun, wouldn't it?" she questioned.

Hotch gave a surprisingly elegant shrug. "Would it?" he returned.

But again, she just laughed. "I'm not going to be that easy," she said, winking. Then she cocked her head toward the several round tables just a couple feet away. "Sit with me?"

"Of course."

Once they were seated, Emily let her eyes roam his body more freely, licking her lips as she saw the muscles in his upper arm flex at some motion Hotch had done. "I must say, you look quite handsome," she complimented, openly flirting now. She had not a care in the world; Hotch didn't know who he was talking to. There were no boundaries, no lines that were untouchable between them at the moment. She could be free with her opinions, her emotions.

"Thank you," she heard him mutter, just a beat too late, and she felt her heart swell with pride when she realized that he had been preoccupied with staring at her body; the miles and miles of creamy skin bared to his gaze, her perfectly displayed cleavage, her long, long legs. "And you…you look beautiful. Stunning, really. You look just like Marilyn Monroe…the resemblance is almost shocking. You even sound like her," Hotch added, and Emily picked up on the slightest bit of frustration in his voice that he couldn't determine who he was conversing with.

"So many compliments," Emily blushed, her voice just the tiniest bit husky. "I don't know how to respond." Their hands were resting on the table, palms down, fingers spread apart. She danced her fingers in between his almost demurely, her lips curving upwards as they gently brushed against each other, skin against skin. "So…" she began, her fingers now traveling across the skin of his hand, "admittedly, I was surprised when I found out you would be coming here tonight. Fundraisers - let alone masquerade balls - are hardly your ideal scene," she noted. "I was sure you would be at home, sullenly working on closing files, signing papers…boring things like that." She inched half an inch closer. "But looks like I was wrong."

"Looks like it," he responded, biding his time as his mind ran circles. He had to admit, he was intrigued. His interest was piqued, so much more than it had been in a while. Who is this woman? he wondered, desperately wishing to know the answer. She seems so familiar; almost like…oh, no, it can't be her. "And again," he finally addressed, after a second had passed, "you know so much about me. I'm curious as to how." His hand itched to reach forward and take off the scarlet red mask she was wearing, but alas, he remained still. "Could I get a clue?"

"Mm-mm," she declined.

"Please?" he asked, and even he was surprised at the level of seduction that had bled into his tone.

Feeling her heart skip a beat, Emily contemplated the thought of revealing who she was, then let out a small, yet pleased sigh. "Tell you what; you get me a drink, then I'll give a clue."

Hotch smiled at that, letting out a dimple that somehow added to the devilishly handsome appeal of the costume he was wearing. "Fair enough."

~.~.~

A glass of red wine now in her hand, Emily turned back to the delicious-looking man seated before her. "You never answered my question."

"I didn't?"

She shook her head, the action causing blonde locks to cascade over her shoulders. "Why are you really here? You hate events like this."

He contemplated his answer for a while, before finally saying, "I'm looking for someone."

"Looking for someone?" she echoed, interest in her tone. "Like?" When he didn't immediately answer, Emily grinned. "My, my…is Agent Hotchner looking for a woman?"

He held her gaze, then eventually nodded. "I am."

"And her name is?"

This time, it was his turn to laugh. "I'm not going to be that easy," he said, quoting her words from earlier.

She huffed, but gave him a brilliant smile nonetheless. "Touché."

They didn't speak for a moment, just observed the scene around them; the costumes, the people, the emotions in the air. "I believe you owe me a clue," Hotch suddenly reminded, beyond anxious to discover the enchanting woman's identity.

"That I do," Emily agreed. "Very well. I am naturally a brunette, not a blonde," she revealed.

Hotch scoffed playfully. "How about a clue that is not so obvious?"

She rolled her eyes and once again, Hotch felt a tug of familiarity as he observed the action, but he kept his assumptions to himself. "Fine. Like?" she prompted.

"Like…what unit are you in?"

"Mmmm...not answering that one," Emily said, observing him intently.

He frowned, then shrugged. "Okay, then. Why are you really here tonight?"

She took a long sip of her wine, the sharp fruity liquid soothing her nerves, loosening her up. "Would you believe me if I said I was looking for a man?" she returned, her expression holding a certain…irresistibility.

"I would," Hotch confessed, and he did. A woman as beautiful as her…surely she would have no trouble with her quest, either. If only…

"Now," her voice - Marilyn's voice - brought him back to the present, "why won't you tell me who you're 'looking' for? Maybe I could help you out," Emily offered, very much intrigued.

He chuckled at her persistence. "Maybe later," he postponed. Besides, he didn't want anyone to know; word could get to Strauss, and then…all hell would break loose.

Emily groaned, then stood and stretched a hand in his direction. "Fine. Go ahead and be like that," she teased. "But why don't we go outside for a bit? The weather's beautiful, the courtyard even more so. It's too stuffy in here."

He stood along with her and took her hand, then stopped as they reached the door leading to the outside. "Are you sure you don't want to hang around here and play an innumerable amount of political games?" The sarcasm and consequent loathing in his voice was clear to anyone's ears. "Unless…unless you're not one of those people," he added as an afterthought, a certain other woman on his mind.

"You are correct; I'm not one of those people," she divulged, letting her assumed voice slip for just a moment. "Now follow me."

It has to be her. It has to be, he thought, his mind blown.

And when she gave him an unbelievably mesmerizing look, Hotch couldn't find it in him to object.

~.~.~

"So…what'll it take for me to find out who you really are?"

Emily tossed him a slight smile as they sat on a cold stone bench in the middle of the incredibly spacious courtyard. "A lot," she answered vaguely, winking.

A lot? he thought to himself. Like what? Once again, Hotch found himself unbelievably intrigued. But he said nothing in response…not until the costumed brunette reached forward and once again began dancing her fingers along his hand, letting them travel all the way up his arm this time.

He tensed as she played with the muscles of his broad shoulders.

She pouted in result. "You're so…tightly wound. Every day, you're like this. Tell me, Hotch - Aaron," she practically purred, "when was the last time you were truly, completely relaxed?" She paused, simply for effect. "When was the last time you had…" she searched for the right word, "…a release?"

His eyes flashed up to hers, and he had never wanted to rip off her mask as much as he did now. Tell me who you are! his mind screamed. "What are you suggesting?" he asked instead, almost warily.

Emily just brushed it away with a laugh, the alcohol in her system making her braver than she thought she'd ever be. "Never mind. Have you ever been on a blind date?"

Hotch frowned at what he thought was a non-sequitur, but answered her question nonetheless. "No, I can't say I have."

"That's what I thought." She studied him for a long moment, then looked down at his lips. So kissable, she thought, before returning to her original train of thought. "I have. And the only reason why I have is that…sometimes, you can let your mind wander. Sometimes, even though you're with a stranger - like you and I seem to be right now - you have the freedom to imagine who you want to other to be. You can picture the person you've been wanting, and pretend for just a moment, that everything you have is perfect. For just a moment, you don't have to worry about breaking the rules, getting in trouble. For just a moment…none of the job restrictions are there."

At that exact moment, everything connected in Hotch's mind.

She's a brunette.

She wasn't interested in politics.

She knows me, knows what I do on - seemingly - a daily basis.

And now…she's talking about rules, job limitations...

...Intra-team fraternization rules.

His mind was reeling, his heart beating quickly at his realization.

It is her. It has to be.

"What are you saying?" he said, breaking the silence that had resulted after her previous musings, his voice almost husky.

"I'm saying…you and I wouldn't have to worry."

His next words fell from his lips in a whisper. "Tell me who you are."

She avoided the plea rather skillfully, instead moving closer…ever closer. "I've wanted this for so long…"

Her lips were a single inch away from his. He could feel her breath fanning out against his cheek; he could smell her distinct perfume. "How long?"

"Seven years," she quoted, and the Marilyn Monroe impersonation voice was back; heavily so.

"Very funny," he said numbly, knowing she was referring to the movie where her costume had famously been displayed in; The Seven Year Itch. "No…tell me. Really." Her eyes fell closed as he deliberately closed the distance between them and their lips met in a slow kiss filled with fire. He moaned against the heavenly soft skin of her jaw. "Please."

Breaking their kiss after it had progressed into something much more passionate, something that involved a flurry of tongues and teeth, and hands roaming over bodies, Emily eventually moved off the bench where he was still sitting and dropped to her knees before him. "You really want to know?"

His breathing hitched as her nimble fingers played along the leather of his belt. "Yes. Tell me," he begged for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

Before he knew it, she had worked his pants down to his ankles. "I've wanted this - you - ever since you danced with me at my Mother's, all those years ago."

Even though he had long since expected it, guessed at her identity based on the cruelly subtle hints, a gasp was still torn from his throat and his jaw still dropped in a bizarre mixture of relief, lust, surprise, and amazement. "Emily."

~.~.~

Her ensuing smile was dazzling, almost dangerous, and it was the last thing he saw before stars invaded his vision and she stretched her lips around his cock.

"Shit," he hissed, watching through heavy-lidded eyes as Emily took off the wig and let her beautiful chocolate brown locks cascade down her back. "Em-Emily, we can't do this here."

She released him with a wet 'pop'. "You really want me to stop now?" she asked incredulously, licking the taste of his musk off her lips.

He paused, breathing heavily, then glanced around cautiously. No one was in sight. "No."

Emily chuckled. "That's what I thought."

And just like that, she returned to the task at hand.

Engulfing him in her hot mouth once more, Emily hummed lightly as she took all of him, inch by wonderful inch, knowing the slight vibrations she was creating would heighten his pleasure to an exponential degree.

And it did. His mushroomed tip knocking at the back of her throat with each thrust, Hotch tangled his hands in her silky hair, desperately needing some support as he was immured in wave after wave of blinding ecstasy. He was hard as steel, painfully so, but that didn't deter Emily; rather, she treated him to experiences he had never felt before and knew he would never forget.

"Oh, fuck," Hotch bit out as Emily moved so that only his tip was between her lips and sucked hard, making sure to dance her tongue along the ultra-sensitive ridge of nerves right below the head. "Emily."

"Hmmm?" She removed him completely, then stroked him up and down slowly, with a feather-light touch. He throbbed in her hand, and his obvious need for her served to further fuel her desire.

He was close.

And then, after playfully tonguing his slit for a torturously enjoyable beat, Emily took a heavy sac into her mouth and moaned.

Just like that, the first wave of sensation hit.

"Enough," Hotch practically growled, pulling out of her mouth and hoisting her onto his lap.

"But I want to taste you," Emily whined.

"Later," he rasped, his hands moving underneath her airy white dress and abruptly pulling down the scrap of blood red lace he found there. She was wet; dripping. Ready. "I have to be inside of you. I need to."

With one sharp, sure stroke, they were connected so deeply that it was indiscernible as to where one ended and the other began.

Emily threw her head back and let loose a low, keening moan. "Aaron. Right there…oh, yes! Yes!"

Blindly reaching for her mask, he tore it - carefully - off her, then did the same to his, before moving in for an all-encompassing kiss. His hands cupped her face as they pulled back for air, the silence of a cool Autumn night filled with the sound of damp skin slapping against damp skin with each punctuated thrust. "You are so fucking gorgeous," he groaned, really looking at her for the first time that night.

"Come on, Hotch…Aaron. Oh, God," she cried, his hands rolling her breasts roughly. "Come on, come on…fuck, Aaron, come in me now!"

"Since you asked so nicely," he growled, his heartbeat thundering in his ears as he finally gave in and climaxed, pumping his essence deep inside Emily's sweet, svelte body.

With a finger to her charged clit and his teeth nibbling at the shell of her ear, it wasn't long before Emily followed him over the edge with a piercing scream and collapsed against his hard body.

~.~.~

"You okay?"

Twining her fingers through his short hair as he peppered hot kisses along her collarbone and shoulder, Emily gave him a pleased, almost dreamy sigh. "'Okay' doesn't even begin to describe what I'm feeling right now."

Pride swelled inside his heart at her frank admission. "I'm glad." Then he laughed as she reached for her torn panties on the ground and stuffed them in one of his pockets.

"You can keep that for later," she winked.

He couldn't help it; he grinned. "Later?"

"Later," she echoed, burying her face in the crook of his neck and breathing him in. "Saint and sinner," she murmured a beat later.

"What was that?" Hotch asked, lazily running a hand down her spine.

"Look at us; me dressed in all white, you in all black. Saint and sinner," she repeated. "Though," she laughed rather naughtily, "I quite think I'd be the sinner in this particular scenario."

He chuckled. "I would have to agree."

"What can I say? I set out on a mission tonight; I take it you were pleased?" she questioned, a beautiful twinkle in her eyes.

"Very much so," he smiled, leaning in for yet another kiss.

"Good." Emily grinned against his lips, then moved to kiss his palm. "Didn't want your hand getting too tired," she joked, her tone thick with innuendo.

"Minx," he responded, kissing her hard.

"Mmmm…" She breathed out a husky laugh. "Now, you and I are getting out of here."

"We are, are we?" Hotch retorted, his smile growing.

"Mm-hmm." Emily took his hand and, together, they stood. "Because I've got an itch that needs scratching…"


End file.
